


Chamber Of Reflection

by cowpoke69



Series: Do Not Seek Absolution [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dry Humping, Flashbacks, M/M, No Spoilers, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 04:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17801282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowpoke69/pseuds/cowpoke69
Summary: A collection of stories set before the events of RDR2.“You’re getting soft.” Dutch’s tone had been feather-light.And from where he stood, Hosea had been able to understand that he had no intent to hurt him. He was just stating a fact. Something he hadn’t been able to name himself. It was the night before they had robbed the Coleville bank. They had rented a small room at the local Saloon. Dutch was putting on his boots, sitting on the edge of the double bed. He had tried to convince Hosea to go out with him in order to drink but the older man had refused. He had always considered fooling around the night before a big score being bad luck.





	Chamber Of Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> howdy partners. so, i was supposed to post this on valentine's day but you know, PROCRASTINATION. anyway, hope you enjoy this. it's different from the rest of the series, we'll call it a little extra.

His head’s been hurting for some time. He blames it on the fact that he hasn’t been able to sleep for more than a few hours scattered here and there. Sleep. What a concept, really. He doesn’t need it but his body begs for it. He yawns even when the sun is high in the sky and sometimes he finds himself falling half asleep on his chair, where he’s been waiting for Dutch to wake up. And his mind. His mind is starting to get all fuzzy and he can’t focus on the words printed on the newspaper he’s been holding for a while now. Maybe it’s the lack of light, or the fact that he’s getting tired of reading about unlucky outlaws being hanged for stealing cows or a few dollars. 

He allows himself to listen to his heart. And it hurts and he doesn’t understand what it’s been trying to tell him for so long. The fear is eating at him but he refuses to pay attention. Not now, not here. Not again. His eyes focus on Dutch. On the way his hair curls near the ends and the way it sticks to his temples, where his skin has become unusually pale. He looks at his closed eyelids and for a second he doesn’t remember the color of his eyes nor the sound of his voice. His fingers shake when he let’s go of the newspaper to grab at Dutch’s hand. His touch is soft, soothing.

And he spends the whole evening looking at him. Taking it all in. The shade of his lips and the beauty mark on his left cheekbone. The curve of his neck and the roughness of his hands. The way his knuckles tense when he seems to be experiencing a bad dream. And Hosea wishes he could reach out to his core and take all of the pain from him. He wouldn’t mind it, really. Just for a little while. Just to see his features relax. Just to see Dutch smile and just to feel his own heart melt the way it always does when he smiles at him. But it’s just a wish. And he looks at him for some more. A washed up version of the man he loves.

Part of him wants to cry but he doesn’t. It’s useless. He thinks about Arthur for a brief moment. Wonders where he is and remembers that he said something about going back to Munford in order to get his father’s hat back. He scoffs when he remembers the look on his face. Excitement, anticipation, happiness. And he could get mad at him. At his recklessness. At the fact that he’s been allowing himself to be happy when Dutch has been half dead for a while. But there’s no use in that. It wouldn’t be fair to take the happiness away from him. It wouldn’t make sense. He wants to scream at himself for even allowing such thoughts to cross his mind.

But he does no such thing. Instead, he just observes Dutch, almost religiously. And when the young John enters the tent to ask him if he needs something – a drink, a cigarette, anything – he doesn’t immediately reply. And when he replies, it’s to say “no, thank you dear boy”. And John doesn’t insist and he leaves the room and goes back to his own loneliness. And Hosea wishes he could care. But he’s unable to. And he promises himself that he’ll go to him tomorrow. Just like he’s promised the previous night, and the night before. But he won’t. And he hates himself for it. 

He’s startled when Dutch moves against the palm of his other hand, where it’s been resting against the crown of his head. And Dutch opens his lids. Grunts a little. Tries to adjust to the world. Hosea’s lungs empty of all the oxygen they’ve been stocking. His hands start to shake, again. And he’s happy Arthur’s not here to witness this. He’s aware of the greed in his mind. But he doesn’t care much about it. And when Dutch whispers his name he goes all numb and entirely forgets about Arthur or Bessie or John or anyone else. It’s just him and the way he says his name and the way he looks at him. 

“You’re alive.” He exhales.

“Barely. But yes, I am. You seem surprised.”

“Does it hurt?” Hosea’s voice is sweet, concerned. He ignores Dutch’s friendly sarcasm.

“Sometimes.” It’s not really a fact. More of a vague response. Something deep lingers on his tone.

“Dutch.”

“Mh?”

Hosea doesn’t know if there’s actually something meaningful he wants to say. And even if there is, he doesn’t really know if he needs to say it. He’s aware of the fact that Dutch knows exactly what goes on in his mind at all times, and that he’s probably able to know what he’s about to say. But it doesn’t change the fact that he almost lost his mind in the past couple of weeks. That he’s been ignoring Bessie’s letters. That John is barely twelve years old and that he almost got killed but he hasn’t been able to comfort him as much as he comforted Arthur back in the days. Nor the fact that he killed a man in cold blood out of pure love. For Dutch. For him. Because in the end, this is what matters.

“Don’t you ever do this to me.”

Dutch doesn’t give him an answer. But he kind of replies to him, anyway. When his hand goes up to his face. When his fingers trace the sides of his jaw. When he grabs Hosea’s left hand to plant a kiss on the engagement ring that’s been staying on his finger. Hosea sighs. One of those heavy sighs, full of dread and sadness and a little bit of relief. And he wants to sob so badly, but Dutch gives him that look. And he tries to remember when exactly he came to the realization that they shared something so strong that he would willingly give up his entire life in order to satisfy Dutch. 

━━━━━━━━

Maybe it was right after they had met. When Dutch had unleashed a rain of insults and threats at him because he had tried to steal food from him. Stealing was his favorite activity at the time. He’d steal from rich folks and from women who’d spend the night with him and he’d even steal from random people sometimes. And he was good at it. A skilled con-man and a swift thief. But eventually, he crossed Dutch’s path, and things changed. Dutch was in his early twenties and Hosea had just reached his mid-thirties. And when Dutch had stopped screaming at him, they had looked at each other for a while before very quickly understanding that fate had decided to bind them.

The first few weeks were difficult. Hosea had to put up with Dutch’s foolishness. He wasn’t short of ideas and every other day, he came up to him with a new plan or a new dream. And Hosea had to spend his nights organizing the whole thing because following Dutch’s lead was nearly impossible. He was way too reckless. Way too impulsive. But one night, after Dutch had managed to get on his nerves; he gave up. There was something about the way he looked at him – and the way he kept whispering his name until it made him close his book a little too hard – that tilted his whole axis for a second.

“If it goes wrong, I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” he hadn’t even managed to convince himself.

“Don’t be so stuck up old man. I ain’t gonna get us killed. Or worse, caught. I have a plan.”

“Oh, yeah? You should probably get your priorities sorted out before we even begin talking about a plan.”

“Relax, Hosea. Don’t you trust me, dear?” Dutch had asked it in a way that had gotten Hosea to almost snap his neck when he looked at him.

And he hadn’t replied. Because he was still trying to figure out why his heart had skipped several beats upon hearing those words, and why he was getting a buzzing sensation in his stomach when Dutch’s hand rested on his knee. His mouth had gotten all dry and when he finally managed to get some sense into his head, he looked at Dutch and the younger man laughed, as if everything was just a big joke. And Hosea had felt so stupid, for whatever the feelings he had experienced meant. He had felt sorry for himself. And after he had been able to finally breath in, he had joined him in his laughter. Acting as if nothing strange at all had happened in this very moment, or even days before, or on the very night he had met him.

━━━━━━━━

“You’re getting soft.” Dutch’s tone had been feather-light. 

And from where he stood, Hosea had been able to understand that he had no intent to hurt him. He was just stating a fact. Something he hadn’t been able to name himself. It was the night before they had robbed the Coleville bank. They had rented a small room at the local Saloon. Dutch was putting on his boots, sitting on the edge of the double bed. He had tried to convince Hosea to go out with him in order to drink but the older man had refused. He had always considered fooling around the night before a big score being bad luck.

“What do you even mean?”

“You’re no fun Hosea. You don’t wanna drink, you don’t wanna go out. You just wanna stay here, while I get all lonely out here,” Dutch had always been persuasive. But Hosea knew better than to let him toy with his emotions.

“Oh Mr. Van der Linde. You’re gonna make me cry, really.”

Hosea had ignored Dutch when he had stormed past him in order to get to the door. He had ignored him when he had slammed that same door on his way out. In moments like these, he was really able to feel the difference between their tempers. It was a never ending battle between Dutch’s moody self and Hosea's calm nature. But he didn’t mind it because he was used to it. Used to Dutch coming back to him after a few hours, in order to tell him – with a newborn excitement – that he had found another deal or that he was excited to read a new book by Miller or Dickens. 

But on that night, Dutch didn’t come back after a few hours. Hosea had spent half of the night waiting for him, sitting on the only chair in the room. Patiently cleaning his guns, one by one. And when he was done cleaning the guns, he figured he could probably try to read. And so he had picked up one of Dutch’s books. Vanity Fair. But when Dutch entered the room, deep into the night, he had already given up on it. Finding it impossible to focus, since his mind had decided to imagine Dutch in ten thousand different situations, all dreadful and terribly bloody. He had looked at him, from where he was sitting on the bed. And Dutch had stopped in his tracks, as if it were the first time they had met each other. 

“You awake?” 

“Yes, Dutch. I’m awake. Where have you been?”

“Out.”

“Be more precise.”

“Oh, you care now?”

“Do I look to be in a joking mood, Dutch?”

“Fuck off.”

Dutch had relieved himself of his waistcoat and had pretended not to notice Hosea standing up and now walking towards him. And he had also pretended to turn away from him when Hosea had approached him. But it was too late. And he hadn’t put too much effort into trying to avoid him, anyway. And when Hosea had him against the wall he let out a soft noise. Barely a moan, stronger than a sigh. Hosea had planted one of his hands on the wall, leaving the other hanging by his side, barely touching Dutch’s waist. He had wanted to do it. Touch him. But it had been inappropriate just to think about it, really. So he had retracted his hand, planning on letting his words do the work.

“Leave me alone.” Hosea had half a mind of actually leaving him alone, for good. 

“Just listen to me Dutch. Listen, just for once.”

Dutch had stopped squirming between Hosea and the wall. He had stopped trying to get out of the invisible prison Hosea had created around him. And he had listened.

“I do care about you. I care so much that I decided that it would be better to trust you rather than kill you a few months ago. Remember? Or maybe you’ve been too busy crying over yourself in order to understand that. I damn near got myself killed to protect you a few weeks ago. So don’t you do that Dutch. Don’t you…”

“Do what? Say it. What’s so bad about what I’ve been doing Hosea.”

Hosea had remained silent for a while. Considering the question. And he had watched Dutch’s lips twitch slightly, and he had suddenly realized that one of his hands had somehow found its way to his belt, and that it was staying there, while he was busy trying to find the words to express what Dutch actually did to him. And he hadn’t immediately noticed the shift in the air. But eventually, he did. And then, after a while, Dutch’s hand had started moving, slowly, against the leather of his belt. Playing with it, with him, with his reactions. And Hosea had found himself leaning in, failing to say what he needed to say so badly. 

“You’re getting soft, Hosea.” 

And that was it. That was about all it took for him to lose it. His last remaining drop of self-control. And when Dutch’s mouth had finally turned into a full smile, his free hand had found its way to the younger’s neck. He had been hesitant at first. Barely brushing against his collarbones, applying the slightest pressure on his skin. But when his hands had gotten bolder, and he was met with a soft sigh, he could’ve sworn it was exactly when he realized he had been falling from the very start. And when Dutch had looked at him, through heavy lashes, he had put a little bit more pressure in the motion, and he had been rewarded with a desperate kiss. But Hosea had been struck. By something stronger than lightning. A mix of fear and the idea that maybe Dutch was drunk and maybe he was taking advantage of him. And that, maybe, he was undeserving.

Dutch had stopped trying to kiss him, frustrated. “Say something, or you might as well kill me.”

“You’re drunk.” Hosea’s hand had left his neck, reluctantly.

“And you’re fucking kidding me.”

“How many drinks have you had?”

“Not enough.” He had been able to taste the hurt on Dutch’s tone.

“Dutch. You sure you want this?” His hand was now resting on the side of his face, lazily stroking the stubble on his cheek.

“Yes.”

“What, exactly? Be more specific, please.”

He had a hard time hearing Dutch’s answer. It had been ushered in a quiet way. As if he were afraid to say it out loud. As if it were a secret he had been holding onto for ages. 

“I want you.”

And this time, it had been Hosea’s turn to give in. And the softness in his lips had clashed with Dutch’s aggressiveness. And for a while it was all teeth and tongues trying to find the perfect dance and Dutch moaning and when they found a rhythm, it felt so good that he wondered why they hadn’t done this earlier. And when it crossed Hosea’s mind that he was actually fooling around the night before a big score, it didn’t matter. Dutch’s mouth mattered. The wet noises of his lips against his neck, kissing their way towards his chest. And the way he was slowly starting to get hard. And how Dutch’s cheeks would turn red when he pulled on his hair just to hear him gasp a little. And Dutch growing bold each time he kissed him back meant everything to him. 

And the way he had led him to the bed, while holding onto his hand. After some more kissing, with Dutch straddling him, hips grinding against his erection, he had decided that it was all worth getting unlucky. And Dutch had lost himself for a moment there, pressing harder against him, falling apart into his arms. And he had held onto his shoulders, applying more pressure, as if it were possible. And Hosea had tried to follow him. The way he was rushing through things. The way he was now panting against his ear. And he had grabbed at his hair once more, in order to see his face. To see him. To worship him. The young one. The bold one. The wild one. 

“Slow down.” He had tried, half-heartedly. 

And Dutch had ignored him. Replying only with a groan. Hosea had laughed at this. At his impatience. And the smile had faded from his lips when he heard it. And it felt as if it were the first time he had ever heard his name. The first time it carried meaning. And he had found himself grabbing onto the younger’s neck, again, instinctively. And when Dutch moaned his name again and again and again, it sent shivers running down his spine. And it wasn’t too long before Dutch came, holding onto him, head resting in the curve of his neck. And Hosea had found it extremely dreamy and very real at the same time. Especially when Dutch managed to whisper something into his ear, as he was getting down from his little could, embracing him as if his life depended on it.

“Look what you’ve done to me.”

━━━━━━━━

“Hosea.”

He snaps back to reality. To the present. A little too fast. And he realizes that his hand is still holding onto Dutch’s. He’s been crushing it for too long, leaving white marks where he’s been applying pressure. He let’s go. Of the hand. Of the memory. Of the past.

“I’m sorry.”

“You were gone. What were you thinking about?”

Hosea sighs. Again. It seems like, recently, his lungs have been running out of air too easily. And he coughs a little, before standing up. Things have changed, but it’ll always be the same feelings that run between the two of them. 

“Doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you’re doing okay, Dutch.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, hope you liked it. leave your kudos or comments. lotssssssss of uwus. this scene was really inspirational: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBZG38hlXB8. you can find me on twitter @cowpoke69


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